


Perpetually Exhausted

by spellitwithyourpeas



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 12:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7533007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellitwithyourpeas/pseuds/spellitwithyourpeas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with Matt Murdock was that he had a way of getting under her skin. Like a goddamn splinter pushing itself to the surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perpetually Exhausted

Perpetually exhausted.

Those were the words that should have replaced the “RN” that followed her name on her badge (but she doubted it would fit).

Most nights it was almost like a satisfying ache in her muscles. Like the soreness after a hard work out (not that she exercised anymore- perpetually exhausted, remember?).

But it felt like she’d made good use of her limited energy. That drained feeling she had? And the circles under her eyes? Like maybe she could pull those off as the positive attributes of a hard worker and not just a miserable sign of a lack of sleep and a weakened immune system.

(It was flawed logic. But what the hell? Health care professionals were the worst at self-care.)

She really shouldn’t complain. This was her choice. She decided that patching up gang members was worthy of her time. That cleaning up the vomit off the neighborhood drunk and irrigating the wound of the drug dealer whose combination of diabetes, poor diet, and well…drugs…left his old gunshot wound in a sorry state.

But she also got the abused mother of two. Watched her range of motion in her wrist slowly fade with each repeated injury. Watched the woman tearfully nod while she explained her options, but ended with the reminder. It is up to you. It is your choice and I won’t break your trust.

(Those were the really hard nights).

This job that kept her on her feet for 12 hours? It demanded her focus and her best. It fulfilled that need for control she’d carried with her since before she could remember.  

She could have found a managerial position (she was good at throwing out orders). More importantly she was good at listening.

But these were her people. The lost and the broken. At least here she could do something. Dress a wound. See the relief when the pain medications take effect.Offer words of comfort. 

Up there? In an office? She wouldn’t accomplish shit.

It would be simple, and after everything that’s happened these past couple months, she could use that.

One needle decompression later and suddenly she’s Claire Temple “Friend of vigilantes”. She was a sucker for heroes and underdogs and goddamn, Matt knew that. Probably why he kept coming back.

Some nights with him gave a whole new meaning to feeling drained. Usually she could handle guilt. But Catholic Guilt? Shit that was in a league of its own. It was funny. Seemed like she was playing the devil’s advocate for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen who flinched at the blood on his hands.

And most nights, with his fixations and sarcasm, it was like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall with super senses that told her what a hairline fracture sounded like. Who could smell cologne floors below them. Who saw a world on fire.

She had tried many times (unsuccessfully), for her own peace of mind, to forget how his hands felt on her.

She couldn’t even imagine what kind of lover he was (ok, she could and she did).

The mental image was currently making her usually steady hand tremble as she packed said drug dealers wound. The gauze shaking ever so slightly as she pushed it in with the sterile applicator.

(Not the time Temple. Not the time at all. Maybe later. At home. Alone.)

The problem with Matt Murdock was that he had a way of getting under her skin. Like a goddamn splinter pushing itself to the surface. Right when she felt settled, like she was getting back into some kind of rhythm in her life, he stumbles in.

God, she wanted to scream at him. Don’t you see the shit that follows you? The kind of shit that I usually have to help clean up.

The kind of shit that gets me hurt.

Do you even care?

And she knew he did. But that didn’t stop him from coming back.

Maybe he had more in common with the patient she was currently bandaging up. Addictive personality? Check. Tendency to withdraw from loved ones? Check. Feelings of invincibility? Check, check, check.

Aw hell, this is the point where he’d usually walk in. Right after she’d done her assessment and made her conclusion. He’d come in and fuck the whole thing up.

Things were easier when he had just been “Mike” to her. At least there was that secret between them….some kind of anonymity. Didn’t stop the desire (God, that had felt fucked up the time).

Regardless, she still missed him. But that was on her. That was her shit to process. And she would process it. She wasn’t like him. She didn’t let feelings fester. No, she was moving on. 

Or at least trying to.

**Author's Note:**

> Some Claire stream of consciousness because what an amazing character who deserves the world and more.  
> Thank you so much for reading! I love feedback!
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://lightofpage.tumblr.com/)


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